Sometimes, I relive the most painful memories of the day that Oliver died, in an effort to force myself to accept that this is, in fact, my reality. That this isn’t some weird nightmare I’m in, it isn’t someone else’s life I’m looking down on. That isn’t someone else saying, “Yes, she had a twin brother, but he died.” That’s actually ME saying those words. That’s actually ME saying, almost sickeningly nonchalantly, that I just ordered the headstone for my baby’s grave, and it should be here in February, on a truck full of other headstones.
That’s me wondering what to do with the “Oliver” stocking I ordered while I was still pregnant, because PB was having a great sale. That’s me talking to my mom about ordering a Christmas “blanket” of fresh pine for his grave. That’s me making payments on his medical bills. That’s me looking at the photos from Avery’s recent photoshoot, and cursing the heavens or the Gods or whatever the fuck took him away from me.
That’s me wondering so often what he would look like now, today, right this second. What he would be doing that would be the same as his sister, or different than her. That’s me softly telling Henry that it’s not nice to say, “Baby looks dead” while talking about Avery.
That’s actually me, missing my sweet, chubby, perfect baby boy, every second, of every day. That’s me fearing that someday, I’ll forget so many of the little things he did. That’s me fearing that I’ve already started to.